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‘Not at all. It’s fascinating. I’ve picked up quite a lot of whisky information since I’ve worked here, but it’s not my area of interest.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Liz asked.
‘Five years.’ Sally flicked another switch and dim lighting glowed the vault to life, highlighting a space that stretched into distant corridors, lined with barrels.
‘Wow,’ Liz breathed, looking around her. ‘This is amazing. It looks like it goes on for miles. What’s the oldest cask you have down here?’
‘Oh, gosh. I think there’s an 1810 down here somewhere. But, yeah. Some really vintage ones, for sure.’ Sally frowned. ‘You’d have to ask Ben.’
‘I will.’ Liz already had a few things to mention to the distillery owner – when he chose to show up.
‘And… are they ever sold? The market for vintage whisky from niche distilleries like this is very active.’ Liz traced her finger in the dust covering a row of oak casks, stamped with the Loch Cameron Distillery name.
‘Not as far as I know.’ Sally raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you were saying,’ Sally prompted her. ‘My distillery history lesson.’
‘Oh. Stop it,’ Liz snorted. ‘You know all this. You don’t have to humour me.’
‘Actually, I don’t. I’m a finance person, remember. I mean, I like whisky. But I’m more of an enthusiastic amateur.’ Sally shrugged.
Liz smiled. Now that she was at the distillery, she was in her element, and any first day nerves or anxiety had melted away.
‘Okay. Well, what else…? Okay, well, although we can probably thank the monks for their sterling work in perfecting the art of distilling, some records show that the ancient Celts practiced distillation during the production of theiruisgebeatha. That meanswater of lifein Gaelic,’ she added. ‘It wasn’t what we think of as whisky now, but it was a kind of alcohol made from the plants that were available. Whisky – and beer – came about from grain because grapes don’t grow in these kinds of cold climates. In Italy, France, Spain – those hot countries – they had grapes, so they made wine. We had rain, farmers growing grains, peat and clean spring water, so we made whisky.’
‘I see. So the rain was good for something, then?’
‘Yeah.’ Liz laughed. ‘Only that, though.’
‘Right. The rain does get a bit relentless,’ Sally chuckled. ‘Fortunately, me and my partner live in the next village. It’s a lot more hilly there, so at least we’re not in danger of getting flooded anytime soon. Which has happened in Loch Cameron before.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘Yeah. The loch’s burst its banks a couple of times, but not for about twenty years. Still, weather’s getting worse now. I do worry about the village here sometimes.’ Sally trailed a hand along a row of barrels next to them. ‘There was talk about the Laird fortifying the loch’s defences, but I don’t know if it ever happened.’
‘Who is the Laird here?’ Liz knew that many communities in Scotland still had a titular Laird; a lord who owned the land and sometimes the properties across several villages or towns. Many of the old Scottish noble families had sold their land over the years, and many couldn’t afford the upkeep on their castles, so had sold them to national organisations who opened them up to the public.
But even before she’d come to Loch Cameron, Liz knew that it had a privately-owned castle that sat on the other side of the loch to the village, towering over it like something out of a gothic romance novel. Now that she’d seen its pointed turrets and elaborately manicured gardens, she could see its appeal; she’d read online that it also boasted a private beach at the edge of the loch. Some of it was hidden behind woodland, and Liz suspected that the whole estate probably stretched for miles.
‘Hal Cameron. Nice guy, actually. Not one of these old duffers you sometimes get, out of touch with the local community. He’s probably our age, and he’s done a lot for the village. He’s the local landowner, but he’s helped quite a few local businesses thrive with business grants and almost non-existent rents for their commercial properties. He sponsors a farmers’ market every month, and he rents the castle out for weddings. You’ll meet him at some point, I’m sure.’ Sally stopped walking at the end of a long passageway stacked with barrels. ‘Well, I think that’s pretty much it for the archive,’ she added. ‘Shall we go back up? I can start taking you through the financial records in detail, if you like. Seeing as you’ve already looked at the accounts.’
‘Sure.’ Liz followed the other woman as she made her way carefully along the rows of barrels and old bottles, stacked carefully in racks. At least she was learning a lot about the distillery, though the person she wanted to speak to most – its owner, Ben Douglas – was mysteriously absent.
THREE
It was a novelty for Liz to have a five-minute commute in her car back to the whitewashed cottage she was now calling home. Previously, her journey into the office in central Glasgow had often taken her an hour from her flat if she’d driven it, or forty-five minutes on a packed train. She had to admit that losing a long commute at either end of her long work day wasn’t exactly breaking her heart: in fact, she was loving the fact that she could finish her cup of tea and slice of toast in the cosy cottage kitchen, looking out at the cottage’s quaint and slightly overgrown flower garden, and be in her office ten minutes later.
In all honesty, she thought as she drove along the twisting rural road from the distillery up to the cottage, she could even walk to work and back every day. That would do wonders for her fitness, which had taken a hit during the past few years of IVF.
Once, she had been really into running, but she just hadn’t had the energy for it whilst she and Paul were trying for a baby. The treatments put such a stress on Liz’s body that, some days, it had been all she could do to get out of bed and hold it together at work. Her moods had been up and down; she’d gained weight and found it impossible to lose it.
Since she wasn’t having the hormone injections now, she did feel better, and was slowly starting to establish a better relationship with her body again. But it was slow going. Walking to work and back every day would help bring her back to something near what she used to be, at least. She wasn’t so bothered about how she looked or how thin or fat she was; it was more about appreciating how her body felt and what it could do, rather than endlessly focusing on what it couldn’t.
The cottage sat on a rocky point that reached into the loch, giving it a natural vantage point over the water and great views to the castle opposite, and to the imposing green and purple hills to the left. Liz had found it for rent when she had looked online after being offered her new job: there were few properties available for rent or for sale in Loch Cameron, but this one suited her perfectly.
It had just been redecorated, and though it retained a sweet cottage sensibility, Liz was delighted with its more contemporary touches.
The cottage itself, like the whole row of old stone cottages that lined the loch, had a bright whitewashed exterior which made it stand out on the horizon. This one, owned by Gretchen Ross, an elderly woman that Liz had only so far spoken to on the phone, had blue painted window frames and a blue front door under a porch. The porch was solid at the top, but open in a kind of trellis-work at the sides, where white and pink roses threaded their way up and hung prettily over the door.
Inside, floral wallpaper covered the cosy sitting room, featuring wildflowers just like the ones in the garden at the back of the cottage. An authentic-looking fireplace with light green tiles patterned with pink roses acted as a centrepiece, with a comfy upholstered chair with a hydrangea pattern, a vintage pink chaise longue and a plain cream sofa.
